


Be Glad There Wasn’t a Fountain

by thalialunacy



Series: Frat Boy [2]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Comedy, Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-04
Updated: 2009-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one with the Star Wars bedsheets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Glad There Wasn’t a Fountain

**Author's Note:**

> **Summary** : KARL'S QUESTIONABLE BEDSHEETS, CHRIS PINE'S MORNING BREATH, EXCESSIVE ADORATION OF KARL’S TONGUE, DRUNKEN SHENANIGANS, PIZZA, FUCKING. NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER. THE END.  
>  **Warnings** : Dirty, dirty slash, specifically RPS & rimming. Also, and unrelated, vomiting. Unbeta’d; feel free to point out typos.  
>  **Disclaimer** : Obviously fictional content is FICTIONAL. Please, please don’t sue me. And don’t be hatin. We just like the fuckin.
> 
> Also: The author stole things from: _Sports Night_ , [this Australia CP/ZQ interview](http://austereo.castmetrix.net/podcast/378302368699168433/1/hot30StarTrekWebExclusivewChrisPineandZacharySylarQuinto.mp3), [her friend Jeremy](http://thalialunacy.livejournal.com/1008552.html), _Juno_ , _10 Things I Hate About You_ , and probably some other things she's forgotten. 
> 
> **ETA** : This is actually part 3 of the Frat Boy series. The author of Part 2 requested her related fan works to be never again seen by anyone ever. So here are the pertinent plot points that might come in handy to continue reading: Chris is better than Karl at golf, Karl loves German chocolate cake, and they like having sex with each other.

Zach is a pretentious enough guy to always have _really_ excellent liquor at his place. His parties are therefore, as Pine would say, always _off_ the _hook_.

Pine would know. He tends to drink enough tequila to kill a horse, then lose some article of clothing (‘It’s Los Angeles, bro! It’s hot!’) before making some sort of spectacle of himself and passing out somewhere incredibly awkward.

This time he’s lost his pants—something about not wanting to be outmanned by Karl’s trouser-dropping publicity stunts—and is standing in the middle of the backyard reciting something. Karl thinks it’s the St Crispin’s day speech, but he’s not sure. And whatever it is, it sure isn’t supposed to end with a yelled exhortation of “CAPTAIN KIRK NEEDS A CIGARETTE.”

Karl smiles, looking down at the ground for a second. He pulls a cigarette out of his pack—He brings them to parties, all right, because Pine always wants them and besides so do most people when they’re drunk. He’s become kind of the supplier—and walks up to where Chris has established his green-grass pulpit.

Chris turns, happy surprise on his face at the proffered cigarette. “Hey! You! Thanks, dawg.”

Karl almost shows a dimple at that but suppresses it at the last minute. “You’re welcome, I think. Now come sit down.”

“No! Let’s—“ Chris yanks on his arm and suddenly they’re both sprawled on the grass. “Look, we’re sitting.” That smile tries really, really hard, and Karl kind of wants to ruffle his hair.

“I suppose it’ll do. Now sit still—?” He gestures with the lighter and Chris immediately sees reason enough in the suggestion, leaning in way too close to Karl with the gifted cigarette perched prettily in between his lips.

“Where’s yours?” he asks Karl stuffily on the exhale.

Karl raises his chin at Chris’s hand and holds out two fingers. “We’re sharing. They’re mine to start with, and I wouldn’t want you lighting anything on fire inadvertently.”

“Pffft. Well. Fine. I’ll share with you, but only because I’m sharing with you—“ He makes a grand hand gesture, as if this explains it, and smoke curls around his face. “—and not because I’d otherwise be a safety hazard.” He straightarms the cigarette. Karl is careful with the transfer.

A few minutes and a dozen passes later, the line Karl’s been waiting for escapes Chris’s lips. “I don’t… feel right.”

Cigarettes are his gastrointestinal downfall every time. Every single time. Yet Karl supplies them. Because he’s a sucker. “Come here.” Karl puts the cigarette in his left hand and guides Chris down to a semi-fetal position, head on Karl’s thigh. “Chill out. You’ll be all right.”

Chris doesn’t ask for the cigarette again, and right on schedule about ten minutes later, he stretches out and starts singing. Tom Jones tonight, much to everyone’s chagrin.

Zoe’s smooth voice comes out of the thinning crowd. “Will somebody take this drunk bitch home, _please_?”

“Zoe!” Chris tilts his head to look up at her. “How is it that you can say words like that and make it sound like you’ve said ‘How good of you to come to tea.’?”

“I’ve got him, Zoe.” Karl tries to shift his weight around. “A little help, here?”

“Whatever, old man,” Chris mumbles somewhere near the vicinity of his belly button. “I’m fine. I do what I want.”

“Mm-hmm.” Zoe pulls Chris up—dancer muscles, wow, she’s like an ant—and plants kisses on his cheeks in quick succession. “Goodnight, Christopher. And thanks, Karl.”

Karl shakes his head. “Not a problem, it’s on my way.” Which is a lie, of course, but no one calls him on it.

\---

Chris rolls the window down immediately and sticks his head out like a Labrador. Because of this Karl decides to take streets instead of freeway, and because of this he doesn’t hear whatever it is Chris has decided to wax poetically about this time.

“What?” He shifts out of a stoplight, then knucks Chris’s ribcage. “I can’t bloody well hear you when your head’s out there, dummy.”

Chris slides loudly back into the leather seat. “Pizza,” he announces without preamble. “We should pick up some pizza.”

“Now why on earth should we do that? You were just feeling crap twenty minutes ago, and don’t you pretend otherwise.”

“Because I asked nicely?”

“Have you?”

Chris immediately twists as close to Karl as he can get without hitting the gearshift—the kid at least still has some sense of self-preservation, something for which Karl’s sense of self-preservation is grateful—and puts on his best ‘you know you wanna’ face. It’s a pretty good face, and when he combines it with slightly-slurred promises of totally unfulfillable but still amusing sexual favors (Karl’s never been directly involved before, but he’s heard from reliable sources that Chris is generally useless after Zach’s parties), Karl’s hard-pressed to say no.

“Pine. No.” Hey, he’s got kids. He’s got a degree in ignoring puppy faces.

Chris groans and sticks his head out the window again. This time Karl can discern what he yells, and almost opens the door and shoves him out right then: “FATTY WANTS PIZZA.” Then he slumps back into the seat. “I also want to get laid.”

Karl snorts. “Yeah, that’s likely.”

“I think liquor only magnifies my charm.”

“Yeah, well, you’re going to be charmingly unconscious in about ten minutes, mate.”

Chris ponders this for half a drunken second. “That’s probably true, too.” Then he brightens. “Still enough time for pizza, though, right?”

Karl stifles a groan. He sits at the stoplight, tapping his foot lightly on the clutch. The signal takes forever to change, and during the interim, he comes to grips with three things: There will be pizza. There will probably then be vomit. And Chris is going to mock the hell out of his bedsheets.

Chris instantly sees that he’s won. “And there has to be olives. Please?”

Karl hates olives. “Fine.”

\---

Chris vomited inaugurally within fifteen minutes of the pizza, yet came out of the bathroom asking for more and wiping his mouth with a hand towel suave as you please. Karl marveled for about a second, then remembered _the vomit_ , and that it’s his bathroom, and was no longer impressed. Chris’s suavity in general is nearly accidental, anyways; Karl has a theory that at about age twenty-three he just started tripping into it each morning as he put on whatever totally unsubtle-despite-looking-subtle outfit he or his stylist had picked out. Even excessive amounts of alcohol can’t knock it out of him fully, although it gives the goode ole college trye. Like Karl can hear it doing once again through the bathroom door.

He’s changed into sleep pants—yeah, he can’t sleep in a shirt, laugh if you must—and turned down the covers when Chris finishes this second round of digestive pyrotechnics. The bathroom door swings open and Chris stops a foot into the bedroom, sloppy in the motion of wiping his mouth as he looks Karl up and down.

“Nice shirt,” Chris says. He’s grinning like he’s won something.

Karl does a little bow. “Thank you.”

Then Chris notices the bed and laughs. His head tips back and everything, causing him to sway a little. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Once he’s ascertained that Chris isn’t going to topple over, Karl crosses his arms in front of him. “Yeah, totally, I put them on there as a joke, just for you.”

“Well, you can be a crafty Kiwi bastard sometimes.”

“Oh?”

“Two words: beer pong.”

“Oh.” He can’t help but smile. “Come on,” he says, gesturing to the bed. “Shoes off, then in you go.”

Chris toes off his Chucks and socks—pulls off his shirt, too, which is nice—but protests the rest. “I can’t sleep on fucking _Star_ Wars _bed_ sheets. It’s, like, heresy or something. I’ll burst into flames upon contact.”

“I’ve done it, and clearly I’ve not been harmed.”

“Yeah, but you’re a geek.”

“Wow, thanks. You can sleep on the couch, then, you yuppie golf-hustler.”

Chris shakes his head. “No, thanks. I mean, I admit to being a hustler, but the couch just lacks a certain— Wait.“ He cocks an eyebrow at Karl, which seems to make him a little dizzy because he reaches out and puts a hand on Karl’s solar plexus. “You’re totally sober.”

Karl pulls at that arm and maneuvers Chris down onto the bed. “And you’re not. Now get in.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Chris pushes his feet at the offensive covers before deciding they’re safe and burrowing in.

Karl crawls over him and slides under the (awesome) covers as well. “I’d make a better Watson.”

“True,” Chris yawns into a pillow restlessly. “But not my point.”

“What, dare I ask, _is_ your point?” He shifts. “Give over,” he says, and Chris follows his lead easily, until he’s settled at Karl’s side, cheek somewhere over Karl’s heart. Immediately, his eyes droop, and a corner of Karl’s mouth turns up.

“You’re sober and…” Chris breathes in deeply, clearly fighting the heady sleep of intoxication. “I’m in your bed.”

“Brilliant deduction, Pine. Somebody had to make sure you didn’t injure yourself.”

…to which the reply is a soft snore.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” he says wryly, planting a small kiss on the top of Chris’s head before turning off the light and closing his eyes.

\---

He wakes up the next morning to Chris’s coughing. He’s facing away from him, hacking half a lung out over the side of the bed. “That sounds lovely. You alright?” He rubs his back, half out of paternal habit and half just because it’s _Chris_ and it’s _there_.

“Yeah, no, I’m—“ One last little wheeze huffs out. “—I haven’t had a cigarette in a while, sorry.” He curls back into the bed, his skinny, half-naked back very close to Karl’s less skinny but equally half-naked front. “I’m sorry it woke you,” he mumbles sleepily, “really, sorry, didn’t mean to. Feel free to go back to sleep, I—”

Karl slides a hand around Chris’s abdomen and puts his lips to his ear, making short work of the small space between them. “It’s alright. Good morning.”

“Jesus Christ,” Chris manages hoarsely, arching against him; there’s no doubting that it’s morning and they’re boys. “Yes. Good morning.” Then he chuckles, the sound rough yet utterly wholesome somehow.

Karl’s used to him having the attention span of a kitten, so he just gives the slightest of pushes with his hips, grazes the skin of Chris’s shoulder with his lips, and waits. “What?”

“Nothing,” Chris replies, that pretty much edible backside of his flexing in retaliation. “I was just remembering that—Does ‘pitch a tent’ mean the same thing in New Zealand as it does in Australia?”

Karl laughs warmly into Chris’s skin, continuing with the moving of his hips, lazily testing out the friction and heat. “Where did you learn that?”

Chris’s hand moves under the covers to clutch at Karl’s hip, not stopping the movement but encouraging it, holding their bodies together. “The first movie’s press junket.”

“Ah, I see.”

Chris gets kind of quiet, and Karl lifts his head up enough to see that his eyes have settled on a family portrait in the wall. He drops back down, a smile on his face.

“I used my Free Pass on you, you know,” he mumbles against the side of Chris’s neck. It tastes like sleep, and salt, and cigarette smoke, and he dips his tongue along it again.

“Oh you did, did you?” The sentence cracks open on a huge yawn. “I was sort of—“ He breathes back in deeply, smacks his lips. “…sort of wondering.”

Karl snorts. “Only sort of?”

Chris half-shrugs; Karl’s chin dodges just in time. “I know you, man. You’re just… you’re not that kind of guy.”

Karl’s grip around Chris’s waist tightens and he wants to kiss him but he has principles. Strong principles about morning breath, _especially_ considering what Chris had had in his mouth the night before.

Well. That can be worked around.

Karl nibbles at his neck some more, attempting to get his fill of this new taste. His hand curls up to press against Chris’s heartbeat.

“What the heck happened here?”

“Hmm?” Karl turns his head to see Chris waving a hand towards the wreck of pizza and box on the floor. “Oh, you dropped it. Last night.” He licks the spot where neck meets shoulder.

“Oh. Huh.” Chris leans away momentarily, rifles through the detritus, then retrieves a piece of pie, which he then hoists into the air triumphantly. Then he takes an experimental bite.

Karl tsks and takes a corresponding nip at the now-exposed shoulder. “That’s disgusting.”

Chris grunts. “Whatever, like you’ve never done it.”

“Yeah,” Karl says wryly, his lips moving along a shoulder blade, “when I was twelve.” He pushes gently in the general arena of Chris’s kidney until Chris is almost on his stomach, then slides further down under the covers.

“Um… Karl?” The unfinished pizza slice lands somewhere in the vicinity of the box with a plop.

Karl doesn’t answer for a moment, too occupied with counting down every single vertebra with his tongue. Chris is skinny, granted, but his back is a genuine work of art. Karl has paid entrance and he’s planning on enjoying the exhibit thoroughly. “If you’re gonna puke,” he says at about the second lumbar disk, “you’d better get it over with now.”

Chris shakes his head, and Karl notes that his breathing is decidedly uneven. “Naw, I’m good. I think I puked enough last night to be okay this morni—Hey.” Karl has shrugged the covers off both of them, and the air must seem chilly.

Karl moves back up the bed, his knees on either side of Chris and his body and heat hovering, sharing. Letting Chris leech off of him until they hit an imperfect sort of symbiosis. He unabashedly nuzzles the crook of Chris’s neck for the moment, tugging on an ear with his teeth and sucking lightly on the spot right below, and only when a low, satisfied sigh finally escapes Chris does he pull back, moving back down the bed.

He tugs gently at Chris’s hips. “Up.”

Chris shoots a look over his shoulder, but Karl just smiles at him and tugs a belt loop. “Get those off, too.”

Chris pulls himself up, rocking back onto his heels. “Alright, Urban,” he says while making fumbly but short work of his button and zipper, “you can have your way with me.” When Karl’s arms come around his waist to assist him, Chris counters by pulling them snug and leaning back into him. Karl buries his nose in the space behind his ear and tries not to smile like a wanker.

Then Chris opens his mouth again. “But if you think I’m doing any of the work this early in the morning, plus _hungover_ , then—”

“Oh for the love of—“ Karl pushes Chris onto his stomach and pulls his remaining clothes all the way off in one epic move. “And they say you’re a smart guy.”

“Yeah, well, I like to keep people on their toes,” is a little muffled by the pillow before Chris turns his head. “Wouldn’t do to just show all my cards like some— _Gah_.” His hips arch off the bed, just as Karl intended. “Do that again.”

Karl smiles and lazily does as requested, biting gently at the ubiquitous base-of-spine dimple then tracing the light mark with his tongue. His hands hold the rutting hips in place, fingers making slow circles on warm skin. “Come on, up.”

Chris chuckles as he complies, stretching out his spine lazily and settling his forehead on folded arms. “Okay, but this is a little surreal pressed up against Obi-Wan.”

Karl smiles into skin, grips those hips a little harder, bites at one cheek. “Shut your eyes and shut up.”

“You’re my only hope,” Chris high-voices with a snicker.

“Pine, seriously, you say anything else and I will kick you out of this bed before you can say ‘light saber.’”

Chris of _course_ opens his mouth but Karl has already gone and executed a pre-emptive strike, his tongue running the line between smooth muscles and down to its goal. Chris jerks back into him with a ‘fuck,’ all thoughts of witty wordplay clearly forgotten, and Karl’s got him, cradled in his hands and his mouth and tongue, which, now that it’s breached new territory, sets out to conquer and destroy.

It’s wrinkled, alien terrain and exploring it orally should be an entirely unpleasant experience outside the realm of the plausible, especially considering whose territory it _is_ , but Karl has a hidden penchant for such things, very safely hidden along with his proclivities for Scrabble, swearing only during sex, and watching _I Dream of Jeanie_ reruns. And, quite possibly, somewhere back with the youth tournament trophies and the dust bunnies, for young, reckless enthusiasm.

But the point is that he goes at it as if he himself is enthusiasm embodied, stroking and circling and pushing in as far as he dares and it’s shockingly fun, feeling tiny and not-so-tiny muscles contract and having to steadily hold onto Chris’s hips as they swivel and jerk and try to push back. The sounds coming out of Chris’s mouth are encouraging, then they get gratifying, then they get downright distracting, going straight to his cock, which he strokes once, absently, just to touch base. To make sure they’re on the same page.

Chris swears vehemently and Karl looks up to see him watching Karl’s hand, the one that disappears into Karl’s pants, his chin pressed into his shoulder and his eyes pretty much screaming his inherent fuckability. And Karl’s not going to argue. It’s not like olives are involved now.

He smiles, maybe a _little_ wickedly, and moves one hand off Chris’s hip so he can slide the tip of his finger around the little puckering indentation he’s been despoiling, using the moisture left by his tongue to press inside. Chris gasps and immediately the pucker relaxes. Karl marvels at it, licks his tongue on one side of his captured finger, then the other, and feels it in his gut when Chris lets out a long groan.

“Jesus Christ, Karl. That’s—fucking amazing, I don’t even—“

He stutters to a stop, which pleases Karl. The rosy cheeks and sweaty forehead and Cheshire Cat smile on his face please him, too, and he can’t resist the pull as Chris’s body easily sucks in another finger. His tongue is still providing assistance, happy to be of service, and it’s most definitely a good relationship.

“More,” comes immediately. Chris is almost humming.

Karl’s brows pull together slightly. “Well—Hang on—need—“

Chris exhales, turns his chin onto his shoulder again to look at him. “Please tell me you have some, then.”

“Erm…” Karl feels his cheeks heating up a little. “Yeah. It’s just in the—“ He gestures with one hand, and Chris gets the nightstand drawer open in that I-meant-to-do-that hurry— Then stops.

“Karl.”

“Give it here.”

“It’s still in the Sav-On bag.”

“I said give it here, you miscreant.”

An eyebrow rises, though whether it’s at the topic or the vocab, Karl’s not sure. “It’s never been used.”

“So?”

“I just assum—“ Karl spreads his fingers, still inside Chris, momentarily. “Shit, fine, whatever.”

“Thank you.”

He’s not slow about it, not this time, because they’re both breathing hard and covered in sweat and they’ve got all day to be slow, maybe, so no one’s surprised when not two seconds after the third finger is in, Chris has lost patience. “I think now would be—I think you should…” His head falls down and he grunts his hips back. “Yeah. Fuck.”

“Yeah, all right,” Karl murmurs, sort of beyond himself at this point, too. He’s out of his sleep pants in two seconds, then slicks himself up, trying to breathe, and shifts up onto slightly shaky knees before pushing himself into— “Oh good fucking _Christ_ talk about amazing.” He leans down on a shudder, getting himself in touch with as much of Chris’s skin as he can. Kissing whatever he can reach while he still has the wherewithal to do so. He has a feeling it won’t be very long.

Chris turns his head and their teeth clank as they kiss but who the hell cares when Chris does this _wicked_ thing with his hips and Karl suddenly can’t breathe. “Fuck, Pine,” he gasps, breaking the kiss. “Do that again.”

Chris recaptures his mouth, sloppy, reckless, and utterly decisive. “Maybe.”

Karl hears the rumbly growl sound come out of his throat but he’s too busy retaliating with a sharp, deep roll of the hips, satisfied when Chris’s fists clench into the sheet _hard_ and he curses a blue streak. He sees Chris’s hand reach for his cock, but gently tugs it away. “Don’t even think about it.”

Chris makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat and Karl almost feels sorry for him. But he’s got this, he can handle this until Chris is there with him. He’s not some teenager. He can fight against the tingle in the base of his spine and the tightness in his balls. He can—

“Holy shit, I’m—“ Chris' body tightens suddenly. “Coming—“ And Karl’s sleepily one-tracked body follows along, erratic thrusts pushing him over the edge into orgasm. There’s a glorious fucking wash of sensation and curse words until the shuddering fades to twitching and he’s covered in sticky sweat. And his body is threatening to file for separation, despite the generous treatment it just got.

Luckily, within a couple heavy, exhausted moments, Chris detaches, rolls over, and collapses onto his back with a triumphant exhalation of “FUCK YEAH.” He palms himself absently, grinning at Karl. “Morning sex fucking _rules_. I’m not even sorry I, you know, splooged so quickly, because I feel like the Energizer fucking Bunny now.”

Karl lowers himself to the mattress as well, but face first and with a groan. “Frat boy,” he grumbles to Obi Wan. “I’m sleeping with a frat boy with the mentality of a twelve-year-old.”

Chris grunts a laugh and rolls sloppily half-onto him, shucking a leg over and across. “Yeah, who drops SAT words like candy.”

“It might be your only redeeming value.”

“That and my hot ass.”

Karl reaches vaguely out to swat at said ass. “Christopher Whitelaw Pine, you are most improper.”

“Okay, first off, don’t ever say my full name in such a situation again unless you want to give me severe Daddy issues. And second: you are one to talk, old man. Among a catalogue of other objectionable acts in which we’ve now partaken, your tongue has now been somewhere entirely improper. And I seem to recall someone once saying—“

“There’s a world of difference between public and private, that’s what you should recall me saying. Now, if I ever hear of you even dropping so much as a _hint_ about it to anyone, except _maybe_ Zoe or Zach, I will personally have you killed.”

Chris waves a hand dismissively. “You know me better than that, don’t—Ooo.”

He’s spotted the pizza.

Karl is closer, though, and has it in his hands before Chris can get to it. Then they’re standing naked in the middle of the bedroom having a high-noon over a decrepit pizza. Karl’d laugh at himself, but he’s busy.

“Hey, give it.”

“I do not need you puking in my toilet yet again.”

Chris makes grabby hands for it. “But—“

“No.” He moves the box to behind his back. Chris reaches around but Karl bats his hand away easily. “For the last time, no. It’s going in the garbage where it belongs.”

“But!“

Chris’s face starts to shape into something suspiciously in the arena of a pout, and Karl narrows his eyes at him. “Don’t make me use the Parent Voice.”

He regrets it as soon as he’s said it, and is proven right when Chris’s expression instantly becomes a full-on _leer_. “What if I—“

“No. Pervert.” He uses his free hand to push at Chris so he can get past him.

“Fine. Spoilsport. I’m going to go brush my teeth.”

“Thank God.”

Karl goes to throw away the pizza, only realizing belatedly that there’s only one toothbrush in the holder.

“Don’t use mine,” he calls down the hall, “for the love of—“ He gets to the bathroom just in time to see Chris guiltily putting said toothbrush back in its holder, wetted but un-toothpasted.

“Okay, okay… You got a better idea?”

“There are extras in the drawer?”

Chris pulls it open and blinks down at the pile of them. “You, uh, must get a lot of free passes.”

Karl hesitates, then—fuck it—grabs Chris’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and kisses him, just once and it’s lips only but still. “No, just the one.” He pulls out a toothbrush and closes the drawer, holding it out to Chris like an olive branch. “I have kids, remember? They visit. They forget things. They break things. And they sure as hell never brush their teeth enough.”

Chris eyes the toothbrush, then a corner of his mouth turns up and he takes it. “Sounds familiar.”

“You break anything and I will never invite you back.”

Chris’s eyes twinkle at him and he does that thing where he smiles like he has the best secret ever. “Liar.”

“Whatever.” Karl wants to kiss him, again, for real, but still: _principles_. “Brush your teeth, _bro_.”

“Hah. Well-played.” Chris gets to it while Karl goes to turn on the shower. “So since I’m already here--What’re we doing today? I don’t have to be anywhere till way later.”

Karl considers. “Care to put a wager on a game of tennis?”

Chris immediately grins around the toothbrush in his mouth. “Hell fucking yes.”

**  
**_FIN_  



End file.
